


in other words

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (in that Shiro questions several things about how Team Voltron treats Lotor), (specifically: Keith denying his own feelings & Shiro's about Naxzela), Alien Culture, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Paladin Shiro (Voltron), Cultural Differences, Denial of Feelings, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Getting to Know Each Other, Good Lotor (Voltron), Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Names, Post-Episode: s04e06 A New Defender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 17:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Shiro’s in an unenviable position. He can’t get his teammates to care about the problems with how they have so far treated Lotor, he can’t get Keith to talk about what almost losing him during the blitz on Naxzela meant to Shiro, and he can’t get himself to stop thinking about Lotor, whom Keith has not-incorrectly dubbed“what would happen if every sexy alien prince fantasy Shiro’s ever had came to life.”Fortunately, a conversation over Lotor’s lunch helps Shiro decide on what he really wants to do.





	in other words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professorpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professorpotato/gifts).



> Written for professorpotato/jasperoura as part of the 2019 Shiro Birthday Exchange. This fic got away from what I originally had in mind for it, but I hope you still enjoy it! ♡

As someone pads toward him, Shiro has to make himself stay focused on reviewing these holo-projected star-maps. Several of his instincts want to jump, screaming at him that he could be wrong, the Castle of Lions’ security alerts could have failed, and an enemy could crash into the bridge at any second. Yet more fibers of his being want to turn toward this newcomer and smile, because they creep down the corridor with singularly unique footfalls that desperately want to go unnoticed, which makes warmth blossom in Shiro’s chest.

That might make things exceptionally awkward, though. So, as Keith slips up to his side, Shiro forces his eyes to zero in on a particular region of the Hekatrix system. Tapping at the hologram, he zooms in on one of the locations that might prove vulnerable to an assault from the Coalition, whether that means Blades, rebels, Paladins, or some combination thereof. According to most of the intel they have, the Chaskor base only concerns itself with mining asteroids for certain precious ores, necessary in creating some of the Empire’s most fearsome weapons.

“You’ve got something that says otherwise, though?”

“We might,” Shiro tells him with a brief nod. “As far as Lotor’s told us, there’s a forge and a prison hidden under the base. They take the ore, purify it themselves, and immediately start making new weapons.”

“Who’s supposed to be in the prison?”

“Smiths, designers, engineers of war. Think like Slav and Commander Holt, if they were in the business of making power-swords.”

“What’s Commander Holt got to do with anything? Did Pidge and Matt get a new lead on finding him?”

“Not exactly.” Sensing a glare that demands a better answer, Shiro adds, “Lotor handed us a lead. During debriefing, after he surrendered himself. Apparently, Commander Holt’s been kept in a prison with other scientists, technicians, and engineers. The Galra Empire’s used them for ideas and labor. We’re working on a plan of attack for rescuing him and the others, but the security risk…”

“Can’t afford the risk right now? Or is it more that you can’t spread the forces too thin?”

Shiro gives Keith another nod, because the real answer is a bit of both. “On top of that, the prison’s security measures sound deadly, at best. The guards have standing orders to execute prisoners, if they have to field an attempted rescue.”

“Smart move, making sure no one else can get the details on what they’ve been doing. _Very_ Galra.”

The venom as Keith spits those words makes guilt and concern twist like a knife in Shiro’s chest. He can’t stay unilaterally focused on the job, not right now, just like he cannot feasibly spend the rest of their lives trying not to look at Keith. Arms folded over his chest, he finally lets himself turn to face his best friend, his right-hand man.

If he didn’t know better, Shiro would guess that nothing was even wrong. Keith’s crossed his own arms, but he doesn’t hunch in around himself. Instead, he keeps his gaze forward and his head held high with a newfound air that might be confidence, when it grows up. For the moment, it’s trying too hard to seem cold and uncaring, when Keith can’t help the way his passions burn. His black hair seems longer than it did when he left with the Blades—he could probably tie it back in a ponytail, if he felt so inclined—and there’s something different about his face. Maybe his jaw-line’s gotten sharper?

Or maybe the only difference lies in the way Keith frowns at the star-maps and only at the star-maps. He may not curl up defensively, the way he does when he feels like he’s screwed up, or like the rest of the team would rather not have him around. Still, like a scared cat, Keith radiates tension, and almost pointedly, he doesn’t look at Shiro.

On top of that, Keith’s ditched his Marmora armor and changed back into his old red jacket. That _could_ mean nothing special—it could simply indicate that Keith wants to be comfortable—but in light of everything else going on…

Shiro sighs. “How’d it go with Kolivan?”

“Better than I expected. Not as bad as your godfather’s, ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ speech before I washed out of the Garrison. But worse than all of his and Adam’s, ‘You know that Takashi would’ve wanted better for you than this’ talks before that last one happened.” With a quirk of his shoulders that fails to come off as casual, Keith drags his fingers back through his hair. “At least Kolivan doesn’t go on at me about all my so-called _potential_ , which is more than I can say for Iverson and your ex.”

In the back of his mind, Shiro files away a thought, _Note to self: talk to Adam if we ever get back to Earth, assuming he lets me get a word in edgewise. Thank him for trying to be there for Keith after Kerberos. Also assuming I even get that far in a conversation without breaking down._

That’s neither here nor there right now, though, so Shiro gently squeezes Keith’s shoulder.

“I’ve been chewed out before, Shiro. I’ll live.”

“That… is undeniably true. But it wasn’t entirely what I wanted to ask about.”

“I’m on temporary probation from the Blades, I guess?” Keith shrugs as if this should settle whatever he thinks the matter between them is. “Kolivan gave me some big old song-and-dance about how he would’ve done the same to Thace and Ulaz, if they hadn’t died. Blah blah blah, the Cause requires individuals to get anywhere, something something, no Blade can prioritize himself over the mission like that, and so on.”

Shaking his head turns his hair into a cloak around his face. “Anyway, the rest of the team should be happy about this. Lance can stop making himself pick on his best friend and vent at someone he thinks deserves it. Hunk gets a break from being the butt of the fart jokes that Lance won’t stop. When something blows up, Pidge can point to me as a scapegoat instead of Lance, so maybe he’ll calm down, as much as he ever can. And Allura can go back to diplomacy and strategy; she’s happier there than in Blue’s cockpit. Good thing that our magical, outer space _Prince Charming_ swooped in like he did, right.”

Several pieces of that tirade don’t make much sense individually. Trying to put them together into a coherent picture, though, bogs Shiro’s mind down in a fog that has no right to feel so impenetrable, when it shouldn’t add up to anything.

Worse, Shiro can’t tell if he’s stumbling on what Kolivan allegedly said to Keith about the stunt he tried to pull during the Naxzela mission, if he’s getting snagged on what Keith thinks the others think of him, or if he’s tripping on the way Keith rattles off this explanation without missing a beat. Or maybe Shiro’s brain just refuses to wrap itself around such a flippant-sounding. If he does nothing else considerate, Keith could pause for long enough to glance at Shiro, even for a moment, and let Shiro know for sure that he takes this seriously—but Keith stares straight ahead as if nothing in his life has ever been easier than insisting that what he intended to do means absolutely nothing.

Heart writhing against his lungs, Shiro wants to take both of Keith’s shoulders in his hands, shake him, and cry, _“The others_ ** _don’t_** _see you that way. But even if they did,_ ** _I’m_** _glad that Lotor stopped you. How many people do I have left when Voltron’s over, Keith? I lost my Dad, too, remember? Your mother might be out there, but all I have left of my Mom are photographs, and her and Dad’s wedding rings. I’ve got more of my grandparents, but it doesn’t replace them. Aunt Satomi and Naoko probably still think I’m dead. Yuki definitely does. Mom’s family wouldn’t care if they had evidence that I’m not. Adam and I are over. I have Uncle Mitch, and I have you—but_ ** _not_** _if you get yourself killed.”_

Shiro could scream to the heavens, what Keith means to him. Yet, as if he can sense that storm brewing and wants to cut it off before it starts, Keith finally deigns to look at Shiro. Jaw set and eyes smoldering with an unspoken dare, Keith’s expression suggests that he will walk off the bridge, if Shiro dares to contradict him. If Shiro tries to bring up Naxzela or any emotions related to it, then Keith might steal another pod and hightail it away from Olkarion entirely.

For now, he only huffs in that typically skeptical way of his. “So, Lotor’s really helping you out, then?”

“That’s the plan. He’s certainly giving us information we can use.”

“How can we trust him, though? How can we trust _anything_ he says?”

“We don’t, not yet. That’s what I’m looking into. Whether or not we can trust him.” Granted, this might prove easier to verify if the Blades or rebels could swing getting them actual security feeds from the Hekatrix system. Even if they weren’t from the Chaskor base itself, those feeds could help immeasurably. As it stands, however, Shiro can only pull up the base’s schematics and some limited information that Pidge and Matt have managed to hack and decrypt. “We wouldn’t have given this place a second glance without Lotor tipping us off about it.”

“Which _could_ be helpful,” Keith acquiesces, for all it sounds like he’d rather pull out his own teeth with pliers and no anesthetic. “Or he could be feeding you and Allura misinformation, leading the team right into a trap.”

Folding his arms up again, Shiro drums his cybernetic fingers on his elbow. Lightly, he points out, “I’ve considered those risks already. Everything that Lotor’s told us so far has checked out fine.”

“He isn’t an idiot, Shiro. You don’t make it for as long as he has, much less do it as Zarkon’s son, without learning how to survive.” Keith flips his bangs off his forehead, then pouts as they droop back into place. “Me, I could never get in good with anybody, until you. So, I learned how to take what I needed, defend myself, fight to the end. But Lotor…”

Rolling his eyes, Keith lets out a low, sarcastic whistle. “If his day-to-day self is anything like he was during his debriefing? If he _really_ knows how to use that silver tongue, then why _wouldn’t_ he go full charm offensive with you and Allura?”

Shiro wrinkles his nose. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Come on, you know what finding more surviving traces of Altea would mean to Allura. With his build and those ears, the only reason Lotor reads as Galra? Is that he’s _purple_. Add in the fact Zarkon had an Altean wife before they started breaking reality—”

“If Lotor’s trying to charm Allura like that, then she isn’t letting it work.” A taste like sour milk rises in Shiro’s throat. “I get it: Lotor doesn’t come to us as any ordinary refugee. Taking security precautions with him makes sense. But what she’s doing by just leaving him by himself down there? In that tiny cell? And with the way we’re denying him some of the most basic—”

A frustrated sigh bursts out of Shiro, and he shakes his head. “Nobody deserves the way we’re treating Lotor, right now.”

“He might not _need_ to charm Allura, if you keep going on like that,” Keith points out, in a tone that can’t decide between taking the situation seriously and affectionately teasing Shiro in a way that, at the moment, feels more deeply, viscerally wrong than the fact that Zarkon managed to survive the full power of Voltron’s blazing sword.

Unfortunately, once he’s checked over his shoulders for any interlopers, Keith throws out a smirk that wants to be playful, and chills shock through Shiro’s body, emanating from a cold, empty place where he had a heartbeat, not two seconds ago. “Not that I blame you, okay, Kashi? Because I don’t. Lotor’s basically what would happen if every sexy alien prince fantasy you’ve ever had came to life.” Softly, Keith snorts as if any of this is funny, considering recent circumstances. “Just be careful with him, yeah? He has an infinite list of reasons to take advantage of the Black Paladin, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Dimly, a retort flares up in the back of Shiro’s mind. Something in him rears up, screaming through his nerves that it’s not _fair_ for Keith to use that name with him, not right now. Once upon a time, Shiro invited Keith in, let him use a personal nickname that only family, Adam, and Yuki have previously had permission for—and now, Shiro’s insides burn like frostbite because Keith’s shutting him down about Naxzela for about the hundredth time, and calling Shiro, _“Kashi”_ while he does it.

Regardless, Shiro chokes those feelings down and shoves them aside. Starting a fight with Keith—even risking the chance that Shiro might hurt Keith and make him lash out in turn—wouldn’t help anyone, especially not Shiro. If Keith doesn’t want to open up, then not even Shiro can force him to talk.

  


* * *

  


Heading down to Lotor’s prison, Shiro would swear that the elevator creeps along more slowly than normal, like it’s spiting him. The catwalk toward Lotor’s cell seems a longer walk than Shiro remembers, each footfall echoing off the vaulted ceiling. In silence, Shiro passes the tray with Lotor’s lunch in through the little opening he’s learned to make in the barrier, fashioned out of what Coran called a true marvel ancient Altean electrical engineering, even though his description made it sound an awful lot like magic.

Then, before he can let himself open his mouth and get too caught up in anything that he and Lotor could say to each other, Shiro leans on those wall, with his back to Lotor and his arms folded over his chest. Guilt rackets through his body when Lotor thanks him for managing to find darberries (an Olkari fruit he mentioned a few quintants ago), making Shiro’s prosthetic’s fingers drum on his bicep. Parsing out his feelings could help him control them, theoretically. If nothing else, Shiro could figure out which part of the knot in his chest is most responsible for getting him to fidget like he has no idea how to stop—but too many emotional strands tangle up on themselves, and at the moment, Shiro’s patience might as well be six feet under.

 _Come on_ , Keith’s voice echoes in the back of his mind. _Lotor is all your sexy alien prince fantasies come to life._

Sadly, Keith isn’t wrong. Better not to risk what might come from looking at Lotor, then. Shiro can’t prove Keith right, can’t give the team any additional reason for questioning any of the calls he’s made recently, can’t risk losing his position as the Black Paladin all over again when that would shunt him right back into the worst kind of uselessness—that inability to help anyone individually, much less actively help save the universe—Shiro _cannot risk_ —

 _Knock, knock, knock!_ —staccato rapping shocks through the room. Shiro gasps, jumping off the cell. When he whips around, Lotor’s blinking at him bemusedly, with his brow knotted in something that looks enough like concern for Shiro. None of the team would want to listen to him about this. They’d all find some other excuse for Lotor pulling a face like that—

“My apologies,” he says gingerly, ducking his chin as if he’s shy. “I had no intention—especially if you do not wish to chat, today—certainly, I respect that and I did not mean to startle—”

“It’s fine, Your Highness. Nothing—or, nothing serious, anyway. Nothing that you—not really? My fault for getting too—I didn’t mean—didn’t want to get so wrapped up in—” Shiro cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, then forces his way through a few deep breaths. Anything to relocate whatever approximates his emotional center, so he doesn’t complicate an already delicate situation and completely botch this conversation with someone who, by all rights, should count among Team Voltron’s allies.

Nodding, more for himself than for Lotor, Shiro manages to tell him, “You didn’t do anything wrong, so… No need to apologize.”

“We may need to agree to disagree, Paladin.” Lotor wrinkles his nose with an expression that Shiro couldn’t interpret to save Keith’s life. “Perhaps we could attribute this to a matter of differing cultural customs, as I do not know the rules of etiquette and decorum that you bring with you from your Terra.”

“Well, that would make you the first Galra who’s ever apologized to me. Or anyway, the first one who did so genuinely.”

“I have no doubt about that. We _are_ a warlike people, typically unconcerned with showing respect to anyone but our Emperors and commanding officers.” Pursing his lips, Lotor tilts his head in a way that reminds Shiro of visiting art galleries with his grandparents, of watching Obaasan attempt to puzzle out a painting that didn’t sit well with her and find something polite that she could say about it. “However, I did not refer to the Galra, when I mentioned my cultural heritage and the customs of it that I carry with me.”

 _You mean Altean culture?_ , Shiro holds himself back from saying, lest he strike Lotor as presumptuous—or worse, offensive and harmful.

True, Lotor’s ears distinctly resemble Coran’s and Allura’s, and Keith had an impossibly good point about how foolish and prejudiced it is, writing Lotor off as _only Galra_ due to the color of his skin. For all they know, Team Voltron could’ve spent the eight quintants since Lotor first came to them systematically denying him the right to claim half of himself.

As Shiro swallows thickly, guilt pricks at the back of his neck with one simple thought: Tenō Noshiko wouldn’t have stood for anything like this. Time and time again, she fought her own brothers like a hellcat, all to stop them saying that Shiro, her son, had no right to claim any of his Japanese heritage, when he’d been born and raised in California. Thinking of her now, Shiro feels like his heart could plummet out of him and he wouldn’t blame the stupid thing for trying to escape from him. If nothing else, _someone_ should let Lotor know that, assuming he isn’t a full-blooded Galra, he doesn’t need to pretend otherwise.

Still, now that Shiro’s finally steadying himself, he can’t do anything to destroy that calm. Saying the wrong thing about this or coming off the wrong way, then subsequently starting a fight with Lotor? Would absolutely ruin Shiro’s sense of internal balance.

When Shiro only gives up a nod, Lotor hums pensively. “My Mother’s culture,” he explains, “had far more respect for the very notion of respect. Had she not perished long ago, then I daresay that she would find grave disappointment in me for startling a captor who, thus far, has attempted to show me kindness.”

“Well, if my Mom hadn’t died when I was a little kid, and if she could see where I’ve wound up now, then she’d definitely give me one of those, I’m not _mad_ , I’m _disappointed_ ’ parental talkings-to about pretty much every part of this.”

Shiro’s cheeks flush warm as his brain catches up to his mouth. Despite the anxiety that flares up within him like a bottle-rocket—despite the way his internal monologue feels like a slow-motion train-wreck—Shiro makes himself look Lotor in the eye as he finishes that thought: “My Mom was an officer with our Galaxy Garrison, back on Earth. An ace pilot, the best of her and Dad’s generation. But she was a kind person, too. Kind, and brave, and hardworking, never went down without a fight. She believed in people—deep in her heart, she earnestly, powerfully _believed_ —and for as long as she was alive, she tried to raise me better than this.”

Lotor frowns as if Shiro’s a particularly puzzling equation in humanoid form. “You have survived capture and torture by the Galra Empire, fought so hard in our arenas that you earned the respect of several Galra Commanders—including one who, in my experience, has respect for no one but himself and Zarkon—and have come from horrific trauma to lead the Paladins of Voltron in liberating the universe from Imperial tyranny. In what way could your mother find any of that story _disappointing_?”

“Mostly the part where I’m _supposed_ to lead this team, but can’t even convince them not to casually commit war crimes .”

“I don’t think—you…?” Wrinkling his nose, Lotor trails off. Dimly, it occurs to Shiro that confusion makes the former Emperor _pro tem_ look like a bunny. An exceptionally tall, purple bunny with long legs, glimmering blue eyes, the most gorgeous, flowing locks of white-blond hair that Shiro has ever seen in his life (even when Shiro’s team has refused to let him shower for several quintants)—and a distinct tremble in his voice as he drawls, “Forgive me my ignorance, but? Which war crimes, exactly, do you speak of, Paladin?”

“…Do I really need to lay it all out for you?”

Eyes widening and brows threatening to arch off his forehead, Lotor gives Shiro a cautious nod. “I would appreciate a guide to deciphering your meaning, yes. You mention supposed horrors and expect me to understand which parts of the war, specifically, you refer to—and yet?” He shrugs as though his points ought to be as self-evident as Shiro’s should be. “The Paladins of Voltron have committed no atrocities that come to mind. Not unless you count whoever produced your propaganda shows deciding that the Blue Paladin ought to contort himself like one of the Rogark people’s sacred acrobats.”

 _Rogark people, dominant ethnocultural group of planet Yekatryll_ , Shiro’s brain rattles off for him, throwing factoids at the walls of his skull as if he’s still stuck playing the team’s glorified administrative assistant and drilling himself on these blurbs so he won’t mix anything up while on a call. _Worship of the Rogark polytheists’ god of love and beauty involves the use of intricate performances by—_

“I’m talking about _this_ , Highness,” Shiro bites out, derailing those thoughts before he truly does get lost in them. Hoping that it illustrates what he means in a way that Lotor understands, he gestures at the room around them, at the tiny, unfurnished cell with its pathetic excuse for a bench-cum-bed and the scant, overly bright lighting.

Lips pursed so tightly that they almost disappear, Lotor glances at the walls and ceilings, then rewards Shiro with another shrug. “The Alteans of old waged many wars, typically fighting to defend their colonial outposts or to liberate other planets from tyrannical overlords, be they Galra, Dalterian, fellow Alteans, or the Unilu, with their exploitative patterns of financial domination. Several prisoners of said wars proved incredibly dangerous and posed enormous threats to everyone’s safety. Therefore, on the orders of King Lauvell—your Princess Allura’s great-grandfather—Hieronymus Wimbleton designed several cloisters of this nature for the Castle of Lions. So that high-risk prisoners could be kept sequestered from those whom the Alteans meant to assist or save.”

With a huff, Lotor flips his long cowlick off his face. “Does this impromptu history lesson help you with… whatever it troubles your mind?”

Shiro shakes his head. Dimly, he knows that he should say something in return. He would, if he could. But words don’t feel like something he can manage, and there’s a ball of white noise where he’s meant to have a brain.

“Then, I…” A pensive hum doesn’t seem to help Lotor much, but perhaps he gets something positive out of tilting his head and peering at Shiro. “If you take no issue with the history, then do you object so strongly to my current state of imprisonment…?” Lotor waits for a nod before adding, “Does it help to know that the cell truly isn’t as small as it seems? When one can shapeshift, these dimensions mean relatively little. …Perhaps it would help to know that you and Princess Allura have placed me in one of the more hospitable cells?”

“Not particularly, no,” jumps out of Shiro’s mouth before he realizes that his lips are moving—which only makes Lotor stare at him more intently. How can someone so obviously intelligent fail to understand what Shiro’s trying to say? How can Lotor—“It isn’t that I _don’t_ object to the history, either. I don’t know much more than what you’ve said. Judging from an incomplete picture only leads people into trouble and faulty conclusions.”

“Oh, too true.” Something like a snicker comes out of Lotor with that statement. Further confounding, he smirks and his eyes glitter like moonlight off the edge of a knife. Before Shiro can outright ask what’s so funny—almost like he anticipates some objection or another out of Shiro—Lotor supposes, “One cannot always help oneself in the face of the ostensibly obvious, however. Among the Vuluc people of planet Impeer-Seven, they have a saying that seems incredibly apt: _‘The best fruit may not grow closest to the ground, but when one starves, anything tastes like a blessing.’_ ”

“Sounds a lot like the Earthling idea—sorry, Terran—but we? Either way you want to call us, we’ve got—well, some of our cultures— they have the expression, ‘low-hanging fruit’? It… isn’t _entirely_ the same, but? Instead of saying, ‘People grab at whatever they can when they don’t have anything else to go on,’ it’s more in the vein of…” Grumbling softly, Shiro rotates his organic hand on his wrist, which doesn’t help jog his mental wires loose, but even such a simple action feels better than standing here. “When Terrans say, ‘low-hanging fruit,’ we’re referring to something that you can reach out and grab without any effort. A person who’s easy to sway, a point that’s easy to make, a task that’s easy to accomplish—”

“Do Terrans make _anything_ easy to accomplish, then?” Getting hit with that question mid-explanation derails Shiro’s mind and brings back that muddled, heavy, empty feeling like he has a void between his ears—but Lotor shrugs. He almost looks bashful, until his face lights up with a mischievous smirk. “I only ask because you, personally, have been my primary point of reference for Terran behavior, and I cannot imagine that you have ever made anything easier for anyone.”

Preempting another objection, Lotor holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “True, you and your fellow Paladins have worked wonders for those whom you have liberated. Freeing them from Imperial tyranny and restoring their capacity for self-governance does, no doubt, vastly improve their qualities of life—”

“But, what, we cause more problems than we fix by staying out of things while they set up their own governments—”

“Absolutely not, Paladin. In the immediate aftermath of liberation, that statement may contain grains of truth. But such intervention from Voltron would only lead to further and more complicated problems in the future.”

 _Good thing you said so_ , Shiro keeps to himself. _Because I don’t want my team to be right about you._

Such thoughts are neither here nor there, though—especially not when Lotor insists on smirking like a kitten in a bowl of cream. “With that remark, I meant to refer specifically and exclusively to _you_ , Paladin—”

“You can call me, _‘Shiro,’_ Highness,” he blurts out. “Or I wouldn’t mind _‘Takashi,’_ but no one else has used it for a while. If it please, I’d rather you—I’d just prefer—I’d like it if you, y’know, _did_ pick one of those names? And use it for me? Instead of just calling me, _‘Paladin’_ all the time?”

“In that case, I would prefer you to call me, _‘Lotor.’_ ” Giving Shiro another contemplative hum, Lotor drums his long fingers along one of those high, enticing cheekbones. “Why you have not followed Princess Allura’s lead in so addressing me, I confess: even with my admittedly towering intellect, I cannot discern any sensible motive or rationale, on your part. I came to you a refugee and stand before you, a prisoner—”

“Yeah, but those circumstances don’t mean you magically stopped being a prince, or that—”

“A valid point, yes. But neglecting that when speaking to me provides a tacit yet unmistakable reminder of said circumstances. Even with something so simple, she refuses to let me forget the precarious position I currently occupy.” The wall between them _clink!_ s as one of Lotor’s claws taps at it. He points that finger directly at Shiro’s face. Going on, he leans in closer and drops his voice conspiratorially low: “Perhaps we may need, once more, an agreement to tolerate each other’s differing opinions, informed by such vastly different experiences and traditions. But from my view, _Shiro_?”

The way that name rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down Shiro’s spine. It floods his chest with warmth, hearing Lotor utter those two syllables that shouldn’t mean anything special. Despite his higher brain knowing so much better, Shiro’s stomach lurches with desire— _Please,_ he thinks, _please never stop saying my name, I wouldn’t mind you calling me “Takashi,” you could even go right for “Kashi”_ —and God, as that thought flares up, Shiro’s cheeks burn so hot, they must be going scarlet.

If Lotor notices anything, then at least he doesn’t let it stop him from whispering, “Such subtly potent verbal assertions of power do not strike me as the sort of thing that you would do. Or have I terribly misjudged you and your character, _Takashi_?”

“I really hope you haven’t—” Taking a deep breath doesn’t steady Shiro’s nerves, but still, he murmurs, “ _Lotor_.”

That makes Lotor smile. Not smirk, or playfully sneer, but _smile_. His eyes soften, and so do his lips, dropping out of that cold, hard, mischievous curve and into something _warm_ , something _innocent_. His entire face lights up like stars, and—oh. _Oh, no_.

Swallowing thickly, Shiro digs his cyborg hands into his organic bicep, fights to keep his head from spinning clean off his shoulders. He tells himself to just keep breathing, but it doesn’t help. Dammit, there’s no way Lotor can miss his reaction, this time. Shiro’s face flushes hotter than ever, that heat seeping down his neck and creeping to the tips of his ears, and he _must_ be going pomegranate-red, because that’s what always happens when he gets like this over beautiful guys who literally didn’t ask, and there is absolutely no feasible way, not in this or any other universe, that Lotor could possibly miss Shiro blushing over him as if he’s never had a conversation with a crush before.

Never mind that none of Shiro’s crushes back on Earth were quite so intimidatingly gorgeous as this recently ousted alien prince.

Glancing away from Lotor’s eyes, Shiro grips onto his elbow. No, God, no, this isn’t better. Staring at Lotor’s mouth—at his full lips and the canine teeth that look suspiciously like fangs—bad idea, bad idea, this was such a bad idea—

“So? So, like? What did—I mean, we—what did you mean, like,” Shiro splutters, praying it gets his mind away from thoughts of kissing Lotor to within an inch of both their lives. “What’ve I been making so difficult, exactly?”

“My most recent point concerned how you’ve addressed me. But considering this turn in the events, perhaps you did not feel invited—”

“It’s a matter of _respect_ , besides?” That answer makes Lotor quirk an eyebrow, which, in turn, makes Shiro cringe. “I know, interrupting someone isn’t particularly respectful either, but?” Only tugging his organic fingers through his long, white forelock gets Shiro through explaining, “Respecting your station and what it means, Lotor. That’s all I wanted to do, and all I meant by calling you, _‘Highness’_ before.”

Lotor takes a long moment and his own deep breath, watching Shiro for any flinches, any more cringing, any sign of a lie. Under the circumstances, Shiro can’t blame him. Aside from how Shiro must look like a total mess, Lotor has no reason to trust that he’s getting the whole truth and nothing but the truth from one of the people holding him prisoner, not even the one who’s _tried_ to treat him better. Like as not, Lotor lied about how he’s judged Shiro’s character, and those attempts at kindness have only made Shiro a more suspicious character.

Yet, as Lotor nods, he’s still smiling. “Continuing in reverse-order: even with your explanations, do not understand, why you take such issue with my _accommodations_. Both Galra and Alteans of old had no qualms about taking prisoners in such a manner—”

“But Terrans _do_.” Remembering how many of his teammates voted with Allura about this, Shiro slouches. “Or we’re supposed to, anyway.”

“Could you elaborate? Please, Shiro?”

“I don’t—why does this— _how_ is this confusing?” Shiro tugs on his floof of white hair again. “Yes, you’re the Emperor’s son, but _you_ are not Zarkon. Holding _you_ accountable for _his_ actions isn’t fair. It’s on the same level, for me, as threatening enemy combatants’ families.” Under the weight of Lotor’s confused bunny face, Shiro wilts and his shoulders hunch around his chest. “Then, there’s the prison itself. You’re in solitary confinement, aside from when I bring you meals. We haven’t given you access to a _shower_. You don’t have a proper _bed_ —”

“You have survived the horrors of a Galra prison,” Lotor points out, his voice so light that Shiro wants to scream and go deck Zarkon in his face. “Would you say that my Father’s people provided you with such courtesies?”

“Not before Sendak and the Druids took an interest, but that’s a _low bar_ to clear.” Whatever impact Shiro wanted this statement to have, it dissipates when Lotor stares back at him uncomprehendingly. “It—it’s another Terran expression? We have a sport called high-jumping. The whole point is about the athletes vaulting over these bars. So, setting a high bar for them is difficult, while a lower bar is easier, and then we’ve got the metaphorical use of that, and—”

“Something that anyone could do without much effort.” Lotor only considers Shiro’s nod for a moment before returning it. “True, doing better than Sendak, my Father, the Witch and her Druids, and the rest of them? Ought to provide a simple, straightforward task—”

“And it’s one that Terrans take for granted, in our treatment of prisoners. Or refugees who could present a security-risk, like you.” Bowing his head, Shiro pushes through, lest he make Lotor think his explanation’s finished: “We have certain codes of conduct about this, back on Earth. Right now, Team Voltron is breaking most of them. Nine people voted on how to handle this situation—seven from Team Voltron, plus Kolivan representing the Blades and Matt Holt representing the rebels. Six of us came from Earth, but only one of the other five voted with me against locking you up like this, like none of what we’ve learned about basic decency even _matters_.”

At that, Lance got everybody questioning Keith’s and Shiro’s votes with one argument: _“Shiro, drop it with acting like this is about_ ** _morals_** _. Everyone_ ** _knows_** _you’re only doing this because of Prince_ ** _Loser’s_** _freaking_ _stunt with the particle barrier.”_

“I doubt the situation is truly as hopeless as you think,” Lotor whispers. “Though that onslaught of detail _does_ remind me of how we got here…” He chuckles when a knock on the wall between them makes Shiro jump. “Yes, because of that. I only wished to apologize for startling to before and ask a question. Yet, you have dedicated yourself to distracting me from doing so.”

“You don’t _need_ to apologize for anything, Lotor—”

“But I want to do so.” The passion behind that insistence would convince Shiro enough on its own. Combined with the earnest gleam in Lotor’s eyes, though, it makes Shiro thank whatever divine entity is listening that he has the wall to keep him from diving in for a kiss. “Altean rules of etiquette—the codes of _my Mother’s_ people—dictate that one should express regret when one feels it, especially when one is in the wrong. I would uphold those traditions, and I _do_ regret giving you a fright while merely trying to get your attention.”

“I—apology accepted? I guess? Because I still don’t think you did anything that needs forgiveness?”

“Here, both of my parents’ cultures would disagree with you. Zarkon would argue that forgiveness is never necessary when one can simply execute those who cross one or fail to meet expectations. As for Alteans…” Lotor’s sigh seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “My Mother’s people have a proverb: _‘Underestimate a survivor at your own peril only, for you have no idea how far they will go.’_ ”

“We have a saying like that on Terra, too, which…” Rubbing the back of his neck, Shiro huffs. “It’s not a cultural thing, though? It’s from one of our great authors—or one of my late grandfather’s favorites, anyway. In one of his novels, he wrote, _‘Never trust a survivor until you find out what he did to stay alive.’_ ”

“Terribly good advice. Do you mean for me to apply it to yourself?” A quick nod makes Lotor’s face fall into something like a pout. “It is true, Shiro, that I do not know all the details of how you survived in the arena or on the Druids’ slab—”

“There’s a lot that I still haven’t completely pieced together, myself—”

“But I _have_ seen holo-recordings from some of your duels.” Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat and a chill wells up in his stomach, but unperturbed, Lotor clarifies, “You make quite a clever, proficient fighter, and only fools would dare cross you. What most drew my eye, however, was your remarkable showmanship. All of that flipping and tumbling, screaming at the crowd to rile them up when you won a victory—”

“They fed me better when I performed like that, and patrons were more willing to invest in me if I played up the Champion character. Was all very Finnick Odair…” Shiro trails off, shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just… He’s a character from these old stories, back on Terra. My situation wasn’t completely the same as his, but…” He shrugs. “Hard to argue with getting better provisions when all you have to do is shout, _‘Are you not entertained?’_ after winning.”

As Lotor nods, Shiro tries to restrain the delight sparking up inside him. He’s an adult and a Paladin of Voltron, after all. He shouldn’t feel such an urge to snicker over the fact that no Galra, to his knowledge, has ever seen _Gladiator_ , that old film that Uncle Mitch likes and that Ojiisan used to roll his eyes at while quibbling and clutching his academic pearls about the historical inaccuracies. It’s really not that clever of Shiro, throwing antiquated Terran pop culture references at aliens, knowing that they’ll probably assume he invented them—but it’s something amusing, and fun is perpetually in short supply.

“Furthermore,” Lotor goes on, “prior to my original exile, I had the regrettable displeasure of intimately knowing Commander Sendak. As such, I know that you would not have earned Sendak’s respect or interest without behaving in certain ways—”

“He likes it when his favorite playthings show _spirit_.” Shiro bites back a shudder at that thought.

“Indeed, he does. And his definition of that term appalls even fellow Galra. Based on what I have heard regarding how he speaks of you, Sendak must think of you as particularly vicious, and as a prize that he hopes to someday win.”

Why they’re talking about Sendak in the present tense, Shiro has no idea. Granted, if anyone could survive having their cryopod ejected into space, Sendak’s name would be at the top of the list—but Shiro can’t focus on that, not while Lotor’s sympathetic expression makes pangs and aches bloom in his chest.

“So, with that in mind,” Lotor says, leaning so close that his breath fogs up the wall, “imagine my surprise when I find Sendak’s beloved _Champion_ among my captors—and he, among other things, speaks to me while bringing me meals, treats me as neither a stain on my paternal lineage and the very name of Galra nor an incarnate god, pushes against his own teammates on my behalf, and practically radiates compassion. Anger, too, but not in the same way that Sendak does. Your anger could more rightfully be called indignation over other people’s suffering.”

Once more, his claw taps on the maybe-magic-but-maybe-mundane barrier. “That, Takashi, is why I choose to trust you, for all I fail to comprehend what I have done to earn your trust or such kindness as you insist on showing me.”

“You didn’t _need_ to earn that. It’s all a matter of treating people decently.” But Lotor’s as likely to accept that explanation as Shiro is to accept the idea that he should treat people terribly just because that behavior happens to be common—so, choking down a sigh, Shiro makes himself look Lotor directly in the eye. “Is… In either Galra or Altean, do you have the concept of a soulmate? Like, someone whose soul lights yours on fire, but in a good way? Where it feels like, ‘Whatever souls are made of, ours came from the same place, and you know me better than I know myself’?”

“Both of my cultures have several words for that sort of person.” Although he nods again and keeps meeting Shiro’s gaze, Lotor seems to shrink in on himself, shoulders dropping ever-so-slightly. “Altean concepts of what you call ‘soulmates’ may prove more difficult to effectively translate? Does Terra have a kind of usually non-familial love that can be felt as powerfully as romantic or sexual love, but need not necessarily be either?”

“There’s platonic love? It’s—in the cultures I grew up with, at least, that’s what we say for friends.” Despite knowing better—despite having a container of the lip-chap stuff Lance found him at the space-mall—Shiro tongues at his lips. Why is Lotor watching him like the entire universe hangs in the balance and Shiro’s answer could raze everything to the ground? “Then, uh. There’s one word in our Greek language? It’s got a kind of muddled history, because of some interference from certain religious writers? But it’s called _‘agape’_? Passionate, unconditional, self-sacrificing love. Not necessarily romantic, but the powerful sort of love that you don’t—like, you _can’t_ —walk away from without feeling devastated, and where that person’s happiness matters above your own.”

Lotor blinks, half-gaping. “That… That sounds much more like the writings of ancient Galra warrior-poets on love, rather than anything on the subject that survived the destruction of Altea. Not to say that it isn’t _beautiful_ , in its way, but…” With a huff, he dismissively flicks his hand. “Altean beliefs on love share that permeable sense of boundaries. We have the term _‘unelinde.’_ We use to indicate a kindred spirit, and whether that relationship is romantic or what you call platonic in nature—or a combination thereof—they are someone whose soul is, in the Olkari sense, made from the same cosmic dust as your own, based on your own understandings and your choice to make them part of your life, rather than the whims of fate.”

That sounds about right for Shiro and Keith, but before Shiro can say so, Lotor’s adding, “The closest word in Galran is either _‘migadi’_ or _‘migadye.’_ They mean the much same thing—a beloved comrade and chosen companion whose love and loyalty were forged through trial and fire, rather than by arbitrary ties of blood—but the latter refers to a romantic partner, while the former refers to a platonic love.”

“ _‘Migadi,’_ ” Shiro repeats. “That’s what I mean by, _‘soulmate’_ in this context. That or a platonic use of _‘unelinde.’_ ” If he didn’t know better, Shiro would swear he sees Lotor perk up. No matter, though. Shiro folds his arms over his chest and continues, “It’s Keith, our Red Paladin. He temporarily flew the Black Lion while I recovered from our battle with Zarkon, he’s trained with the Blade of Marmora, and he… He’s saved me so many times, probably in more ways than he realizes. He’s one of the only people who’s ever really liked me, and not just what I mean to them or their own idea of me.”

Despite something like recognition flashing across his face, Lotor doesn’t confirm that he’s familiar with that phenomenon. Instead, he needles, “Isn’t Keith the one whom Princess Allura portrayed in your little propaganda performances?”

“Yeah, but he’s nothing like how Coran caricatured him. More importantly, though?” Meeting Lotor’s eye again, Shiro tells him, “You saved Keith’s life—”

“I daresay, Shiro, I would remember doing a thing like that—”

“When you showed up and took out Haggar’s particle barrier.” Maybe the certainty in Shiro’s voice catches Lotor off-guard, leaving him to blink like he’s been slapped with an oversized inflatable swordfish. Maybe it’s just the fact that Shiro’s saying any of this at all. Maybe it doesn’t matter, as long as Lotor hears him out—“Before you got there, Keith and the rebels couldn’t get through her shields. He decided to throw his ship at them, sacrifice himself to save the universe and keep her from detonating Naxzela. Whatever you _wanted_ to do in stopping her, however _lucky_ it was that you showed up when you did, and whether or not you meant to save anyone, specifically?”

Shiro reaches for Lotor’s shoulder, but his organic knuckles _thunk!_ against the wall. Stifling his frustration with the laws of reality, he says, “You did save Keith, Lotor. My _unelinde_ , my platonic soulmate, my _migadi_ —”

“Perhaps he did not mean what you see here, either. From the sound of it, he determined that the cause of  _universal salvation_ was more important than one life—”

“And he’s free to make that choice. I’m not taking it away from him, but dying for the cause would still have left Keith _dead_. It would’ve left me without that passionate, resilient, loyal, difficult, infuriatingly stubborn bucket of scars, and affection, and impulse-control issues, who also happens to be one of the only people I’m certain who I love.” Shiro huffs, prosthetic hand trembling, balled up in his long, black sleeve. “You saved Keith when I couldn’t get there in time to help him. I don’t know what you’ve survived or how you did it. I don’t know how most people treat you. But I don’t forget things like that.”

“Out of… a sense of obligation? You feel that you owe me something for—”

“I won’t forget you saving Keith because he means the universe to me,” Shiro says, hoping his tone leaves no room for argument. “Because he’s my best friend, my right-hand man, part of the family I choose, my _migadi_ —and you _could have_ let him die. If you’d hesitated any longer, he would’ve crashed into the particle barrier. You could’ve taken a more reckless shot that caught him or some of the rebels in the crossfire, but you _didn’t_. You took just enough time to aim so they wouldn’t get hurt, and as a consequence, someone I love is still alive.”

Gently, Shiro thumps his organic fist on the wall between them, even though it probably does nothing to emphasize his point. “That’s why I choose to trust you, Lotor. And since I guess, ‘I find this inhumane, abhorrent, unethical, and therefore morally reprehensible’ isn’t a good enough explanation? That’s why I hate how my team and I are treating you.”

Something faint glistens in Lotor’s eyes as he points out, “ _You_ aren’t treating me badly. Quite the opposite, in fact. No one else has taken the time to speak to me, outside of my initial debriefing.”

“But _I’m_ the Black Lion’s Paladin, the Head of Voltron.” Of its own accord, Shiro’s hand curls up more tightly, nails digging into his palm. “Allura shares the leadership role, as Princess, but being the Head of Voltron means that _I’m_ accountable for my team’s conduct. If everyone but Keith cosigns on leaving you in solitary confinement without some of the most basic necessities for survival, and I can’t convince them not to? Then, that responsibility falls on _me_.”

The silence that drops between Shiro and Lotor throbs with so much that either of them could say, if they wanted. Lotor’s shoulders sag again, and his expression shifts into something that Shiro can read but can’t translate into anything cohesive. On one hand, he looks like understanding—some modicum of it, anyway—has finally broken through to dawn on him. On another, he looks timid, shy, like he _did_ misjudge something about the situation and has only now realized how badly off his original ideas were. On a hypothetical third hand, Lotor seems intrigued and hopeful, and on a hypothetical tentacle, he looks as if he could be sick.

Then, as Shiro opens his mouth to apologize, Lotor silences him with a smile. “I see why the Black Lion chose you to be her Paladin,” he says, his voice almost as soft as his eyes. “After what she endured with my Father—after what he became? It makes sense that she would want a Paladin who appreciates all the aspects of this position, the duties as well as the authority and privileges. It’s good, her finding someone who understands true strength in all its possible forms.”

Nodding happens reflexively, just like Shiro murmuring his thanks. He knows what he’s doing, but as he taps out the security code for Lotor’s cell, it feels distant, almost unreal. Judging by Lotor’s wide-eyed expression and the arch of his brows as the barrier around him dissipates, he’s even more surprised by what Shiro’s doing. He doesn’t react as Shiro ducks around him to scoop up the mostly empty tray, and when Shiro beckons for him to follow, Lotor takes a moment to understand that Shiro means it. Good thing Lotor’s long legs make it easy for him to catch up.

“I thought _Keith_ was the one meant to have impulse-control issues,” he deadpans, halfway down the catwalk, and Shiro only gives him a shrug. “You could have just committed a grave error in judgment, you realize?”

“I could have, sure. But I didn’t.” Balancing the tray in his prosthetic hand, Shiro summons the elevator. “Even if you _were_ planning to double-cross Team Voltron, you couldn’t do it now. You’d need more tools than you currently have at your disposal. In the meantime, you won’t harm anyone because you know it would land you back in a cell.”

“So, you mean to offer me something different from a cell?”

“Yeah, exactly. Like, how about an actual _room_? Quarters of your own, with a bed that you can stretch out on without shapeshifting.” He smirks, catching Lotor in the middle of a longing sigh. “Thought you might like that. And access to a shower would probably be nice?”

“I _would_ enjoy the opportunity to wash my hair.” Lotor sniffs, lips curling in disgust as his cowlick wilts over his face. Crossing his arms, though, he squints at Shiro. “Your team will likely argue and push back against the inherent risks of your letting me out, however.”

“So, let them push back.”

“Do you mean to ignore them? Because that does not seem wise, or very much like what I know of you.”

“Of course I’m not going to ignore them. I’m open to negotiating and working out some guidelines and security protocols that will make this new arrangement more agreeable to all.” Above them, the elevator draws nearer, and Shiro takes a deep breath before it _thud!_ s into the floor. “What I’m _not_ open to? Is continuing to treat you like we’ve done so far. We know better than this, we _are_ better than this, and I just…”

Shiro huffs, shaking his head. “If I don’t play the, ‘I’m the senior officer, what I say goes’ card to keep my team from flagrantly violating basic standards of decency for treating other sapient beings? Then I don’t _deserve_ to be the Black Lion’s Paladin, Lotor. It’s that simple.”

Considering that statement in silence, Lotor leans against the elevator’s wall opposite Shiro. As they start heading up to the castle’s residential floors, he supposes that he can see the points in Shiro’s argument—but mischief glimmers in Lotor’s eyes once more as he prods, “Is the Black Paladin, perhaps, open to answering the question that I _wanted_ to ask before he dragged us so far off-course?”

Shiro nods, then blinks as Lotor points at an empty dish.

“That darberry treat that the Yellow Paladin sent down,” he says. “I have never had anything quite like that before. What is it called?”

“Oh, it—that’s a—I mean, it’s not—not like how we do it on Terra—because, I mean—Hunk could tell you better than I could, just?” Shiro’s cheeks flush warm as he slumps into the wall, but only lightly so, teasing him because they know he can’t handle a full-on round of blushing redder than the Red Lion, not right now. “It’s called cheesecake. It’s a Terran dessert? Hunk had to improvise with some of the ingredients, and I’m _miserable_ in a kitchen so I can’t tell you what he did exactly, but? But it’s good, right?”

“Quite.” Drumming his claws on his elbow, Lotor smiles. “If more of this _cheesecake_ remains available, Takashi, then would you care to share some with me in whichever quarters you allow me to call mine? After I have cleaned up some, naturally.”

Wait, what?—Shiro’s mouth falls open at that invitation. His feet only carry him out of the elevator because Lotor departs first and something inside Shiro screams in protest, telling him not to lose track of Lotor or else he will maybe probably definitely die.

“I’m sorry, I—are you—did you mean, like—sorry, I just—what did you—I—” Shiro inhales deeply as he darts in front of Lotor and stops them traipsing down the corridor. His nerves stop quivering somewhat, but Shiro barely manages to ask, “Are you asking me on a date? Like, an outing and talking, but romantically?”

“I apologize, if I have done something untoward—”

“ _Are you, though_? Asking me to share cheesecake with you romantically?”

Frowning bemusedly, and with a faint hint of concern, Lotor nods. “I’m sorry? I thought that was obvious.”

Shaking his head and trying to make himself believe this, Shiro says, “It’s just been—not like I’ve had much chance, but I—like, a while—no one’s asked me out on anything romantic? Not since my last boyfriend and I broke up.”

“Well, I should like to ask you for the privilege, if it please you.” Getting a nod makes Lotor light up with smile again, and he hooks a finger under Shiro’s chin. “You have previously mentioned the Terran practice of sealing important, romantic promises with a kiss. May I do so now, Takashi?”

Shiro’s breath shudders into him. “Oh, yes. _Please_ do.”

Even with that permission, Lotor leans down slowly, as if Shiro is actually something precious, someone whom Lotor doesn’t wish to hurt. His lips are warm and soft, when they find Shiro’s, and his kiss feels like fireworks going off inside of Shiro’s chest.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA, because I forgot to put in my endnotes the first time: the writer that Shiro quotes at Lotor is Kurt Vonnegut, and the novel that it comes from is _Bluebeard_.
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